Page 126 of Vegas with my Ex’s Best Friends

She doesn’t.

“I don’t know why I’m picking out stuff I don’t have a space for.” She does a small laugh, the kind that covers embarrassment. “It’s stupid. I was just—”

“You weren’t browsing,” I say.

She looks at me.

I stand. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“One hour. Just come.”

She closes the laptop the rest of the way.

We go while everyone else is still out.

I leave a note on the counter—back soon—and we take the elevator down. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. That’s one thing I’ve figured out about her: she reads when to wait.

The strip drops away fast—a couple miles and it’s just streets. Real streets. Trees. Yards. A school on a corner with a mural that’s been there long enough to fade at the edges. A woman walking a dog, not looking at her phone.

Riley watches out the window. She has one leg tucked under her. Both hands around her cup.

I drive east another ten minutes and turn onto the street I’ve come back to three times since I found it. Corner lot. Pale green paint that looks like an accident and somehow works. Yard big enough for kids to run and play. A gate on the side you can see through into the back—a tree with actual shade, a patio with a table someone left when they moved.

For-sale sign at the curb.

I pull over and park.

Riley looks at the house. Then at me.

“How long have you been looking?” she asks.

“Since the night you told us.”

A pause. “That was weeks ago.”

“Yeah.”

“Andrew.” Not quite an accusation. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I needed to know it was possible first,” I tell her. “Before I said anything to anyone.”

She turns back to the house. The porch has a hanging basket, dried out and empty. Whatever was in it is long gone—someone left in a hurry, or just let it go. I notice things like that.

“Do the others know?” she asks.

“No.”

She looks at me.

“You needed to see it first,” I say. “Before Liam makes it a whole project. Before Ethan runs numbers.” I wait a beat. “Your choice before it’s everyone’s plan.”

She looks at the house. The street is empty. A sprinkler kicks on two yards down. A car starts somewhere behind us and pulls away.

“I have a Portland lease,” she says.

“I know.”